


Take Another Road

by attaccabottoni



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Case Fic, Catholic Character written by a Catholic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attaccabottoni/pseuds/attaccabottoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“That is illegal!”</i><br/><i>“You’re magic, you’re technically illegal,” Vidocq retorts flatly.</i><br/> </p><p>A Tarot reading, bluebells in the woods, a series of fires, and cups of tea that stay hot all have one thing in common: Javert. Thefts, abductions and murders with mysterious occurrences surrounding them still need to be solved, and Javert is getting tired of these increasingly strange assortment of laymen and civilians getting in the way of law enforcement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1820, Montreuil-sur-Mer

**Author's Note:**

> I dreamed a dream of Les Miserables angst-free, added magic, and then everything ended up as metaphor for spiritual development. I mean, Valjean has a conversion and he lasted for years with no one to talk to about it? No wonder he ended up like he did. And don’t get me started on Javert. If Vidocq gets to [star in his own fantasy film,](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vidocq_\(2001_film\)) I say Javert and Valjean should star in more stories straight out of an occult detective anime.

Javert looks up upon hearing the sound of rustling leaves. Turning his head towards the window beside his desk, he watches the tree’s branches swaying with the breeze for an indeterminate number of breaths before he shakes himself and resumes his paperwork.

He looks up again when a cup of tea is placed by his elbow.

“I did not ask for tea, Girard.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just that you are yet to move from your office since you got here this morning, and that must mean you had nothing to drink for more than three hours.”

Javert frowns, and the urge to fidget is evident on the officer’s slight frame when he straightens stiffly.

“Have you finished interviewing Monsieur Larivière’s fiancée?”

“Yes, sir. Her alibi was solid for yesterday. Have you any new leads for us?”

Javert has barely heard the question when he starts shuffling through the piles of papers near the front edge of the desk. “Bloy’s report on that newspaper writer, Monsieur Cochin, said that Mademoiselle Brunet was seen talking to that cotton trader from Lille two days ago before the theft in the mansion that same evening.” Once he finds the sheet of paper he is referring to, he hands it to the increasingly wide-eyed Girard.

“You think both Mademoiselle Brunet and the cotton trader had something to do with Monsieur Larivière being attacked at the tavern last night?”

Javert grimaces. “We can only know for certain when he wakes up in the hospital, or when that drunk dock worker wakes up in his cell, whichever comes first. In the meantime, I have yet to finish accounting for Monsieur Larivière’s assets, but given that he has many English friends, there could be a connection between the theft and the assault.”

Girard waves the paper in his hand. “I will read this and go over the timeline again, to see if I missed some mention about people angry about trading with Englishmen and their friends.”

There is a pause where Girard seems to hesitate to speak about something. Javert does not know where the impulse comes from, but he finds himself saying, “Bloy opines that the fight is over a secret love affair between Mademoiselle Brunet and the cotton trader, but to hear him talk, everything that happens in this town has a secret love affair behind it.”

The uncertainty in Girard washes away as he grins. “Bloy is as subtle as an ox, sir. Maybe you shouldn’t send him to interview the cotton trader if it comes to that, he might end up commiserating on problems of the heart over ale.”

Javert twists his lips. “Perhaps I will send Bloy down the cells before lunch, and have him bring a bucket of water. See if our guest likes being soused again and then interrogated about romantic intrigues.”

Girard has already stepped out of sight when Javert realizes he never thanked him for the tea.

 

* * *

 

“That ends my report, sir.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Let us pray Monsieur Larivière recovers soon that we may get to the bottom of this situation.”

Javert bows and is about to lift his foot to make a turn when Madeleine smiles and pushes the stack of papers to the side to prop one arm on the table.

“I have heard that your officer was highly impressed by the way you handled the fight in the tavern.”

“Who, Girard?”

“Ah, is that René’s surname?” Javert stifles a scowl at the thought of the supposedly professional officer under his supervision having an informal way with the mayor, however recently appointed. “He seems eager to relate how you did not need to tackle that muscled dock worker out of the way to spare him from injury, and yet not only did you protect him, you even managed to disarm the drunkard in three moves.”

Javert, who considers himself a patient man, sighs internally. “You might be reminded that Girard is an inveterate people-pleaser if you knew him before you were named mayor this year. I would advise not to credit too much on his exaggerations.”

“So did you disarm him in five moves, instead?”

Javert chooses to ignore the invitation in the mayor’s current good humor, at odds with the distant politeness he is usually faced with in these meetings thus far, and wholly unexpected given their general aversion of each other. “If that dock worker would volunteer more information as he continues towards sobriety, he might be able to recall the exact number, sir.”

Madeleine’s smile brightens. “The story would then become clear enough, and it will soon be known just how brave our Inspector can be.”

Javert gives the mayor a direct look. “I did not subdue that drunkard out of bravery, sir. He was resisting arrest.”

“Then it will be known our Inspector is...inspirational towards eventual arrest.”

Javert opens his mouth to protest when Madeleine chuckles inexplicably, waving a hand to forestall any rejoinders. “You might want to start learning how to receive praise, however exaggerated, Inspector. By the end of the day, Girard may have relayed the story to everyone he has met on patrol.”

“The praise is unearned, Monsieur le Maire. It is only part of my duty.”

“Yet to do so as well as prevent harm from befalling one's friends, that you need not do when you were both acting in the line of duty, I believe the Bible has said that there is nothing greater.”

Javert startles at the word ‘friends,’ and Madeleine gives a warm nod of dismissal before rising and seeing him out of the mairie.

 

* * *

 

 _‘It would do you well to cultivate ties, or to make friends,’_ Monsieur Thierry had mentioned in his last letter, which was sent at the beginning of the year and has yet to be responded to these past three months.

Javert found himself distracted as he went on his nightly patrol, mulling over his mentor and Madeleine mentioning the word ‘friends’ in relation to himself. He is aware that he does not possess the natural disposition that draws familiarity, having grown up living on the edge of society. His disciplined focus on doing the work it takes to drive himself away from the gutter he can slide back to easily can be cause for delayed correspondence, not to mention off-putting towards casual conversations. And yet both men seem to have seen him capable of similar overtures that propel towards the notion of friendship.

Both of them are not even the most sociable people. Monsieur Thierry is a stern man devoid of sentiment yet quickly earns the loyalty of those who work with him despite his rare affability, and Madeleine is somewhat of a recluse yet has earned accolades through quiet ways that Javert himself has witnessed in the past year. Even shortly after Javert’s arrival in town, when he saw Madeleine saving Fauchelevent from being crushed under a cart that only looked too heavy to lift yet was moved in an instant that it took for Javert to have come up upon hearing of the accident, that moment showed how little effort Madeleine would use so as not to attract attention, and yet he immediately has made a friend in the old man that used to hate him. Javert knows that he is nothing like Monsieur Thierry and Madeleine, both respectable men of quality, so the thought that friendships would come easily to him without consciously working at it would be absurd.

He is still silently arguing with himself when he stops at a blind alley behind the tailor’s shop. Years of being a policeman honed in him an instinct when danger is lurking nearby, and Javert has trained himself to not give an inch when panic or excitement threatens to reach for control in his mind. Gravel crunches underneath his feet as he widens his stance and relaxes his shoulders, slightly lifting the lantern on his left hand and had his right hand poised to quickly draw his rapier.

Two sets of footsteps sound at the other end of the alley, and as they neared, they reveal themselves to be owned by two disparate figures. One of them is a woman Javert recognizes as the gaunt-faced seamstress he knows to be working for Monsieur Luchet, the town tailor, and the other is an unknown hulk of man, twice the mass of the dockyard worker that resisted arrest last night, but with a proud bearing of one that has never lost a fight.

They stop walking three meters before him, seemingly at ease upon being confronted by the police on their path.

“Good evening, Inspector Javert,” the seamstress greets, smiling at him in an unnerving manner.

“What is your business walking about at this late hour?” Javert asks brusquely.

“I have left Monsieur Luchet’s service a few moments ago, and my friend here is escorting me to my new accommodations,” she replied in the same simpering tone as her greeting.

“May I inquire as to your abrupt nightfall departure--”

The hulking man interrupted with a snort and shifted his feet. “We are wasting our time. Just kill him so we can leave for Montfermeil.”

This bewildering statement causes Javert to notice three details of increasing importance. The first is that both of them have one of their respective hands in their pockets. The second is that all ambient sounds from nature and objects alike seem to have reduced to nothingness, and only the ever-present distant sound of moving water and their own breathing remain.

The third is that both figures illuminated by the lantern on Javert’s hand seem to cast no shadow.

The seamstress gives the man beside her a little moue. “I want to play with him a little longer. Monsieur Luchet was not much fun towards the end.”

“There are more toys you can play with in Montfermeil.”

His suspicions about what led these two to be walking in this alley has taken a twisted turn, and he feels himself simmer with indignation. That they argue like his authority is insignificant and that they expect not to be met by any opposition reveal what class of criminals they are, and Javert finds this farce intolerable and soon to be finished if he has anything to do about it.

The brute narrows eyes at him, and it is as if a gale instantly blows in Javert’s direction, causing his coat to flutter, the lantern on his hand to swing, and his hat to almost dislodge from his head.

The seamstress’s smile widens to show yellowed teeth and she claps her hands like a child. Javert’s alarm at the stray gust of wind does not prevent him from fixing his gaze on the bloodstains on the woman’s thin hand, mirroring the clenched fist of the man beside her.

At the heels of that fast observation is an equally rapid exchange.

“Never knew they have a little bird here. How delightful!”

“A tired old dog, more like.”

“No no no, see, he does not even know he has wings! He is only good for eating.”

“We have no time for that!”

“Oh dear. Then I will deal with his tiny wings and come back for him later.”

As if it is one synchronized motion, he punches the air with his meaty fist, the lantern explodes and its flame extinguishes causing Javert to drop it, while she brings out a needle and thread from her pocket.

The blackness of the thread seems to glimmer in the weak moonlight, as if it were covered by a viscous oil-like substance.

Javert feels his body break out in cold sweat, and with a certainty that comes from deep in his marrow, he looks at the point of her needle and knows it is evil.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title and the idea for the villains in this story are taken from yet another voluminous text that also should have its own occult detective anime. Fauchelevent is a drive-by plot point that explains itself as we go. And if some names seem familiar, it is purely coincidental that they are mined from Wikipedia articles on real persons or historical events for lack of a resource on French names, and I mean no disrespect.
> 
>  **Preview for the next chapter:**  
>   
>  “Pick a card.”  
> Javert glares down at her impish grin. “You need a permit to operate business here.”


	2. The Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Javert gets candy, an addition to his mental list of the mayor’s eccentricities, and evidence on a suspected perjurer who may well be himself.

Javert picks up the list of Monsieur Larivière’s missing property, re-reads it briefly, and puts it back beside his report on the events leading to Monsieur Luchet’s shop burning down and its owner presumed as the unrecognizable corpse within. He is contemplating the merits of breakfast when he hears four sharp raps on wood with a distinctive beat.

He opens the door to reveal a voluminous dark cloak almost entirely enveloping the identity of a woman both half his height and his age.

Violet holds out a hand holding a Tarot deck. “Pick a card.”

Javert glares down at her impish grin. “You need a permit to operate business here.”

“People will seek guidance from the stars even without permission,” Violet said primly, using her diminutive form to slip through the gap between Javert and the doorjamb to enter his rooms.

As he closes the door, Javert weighs caution against the desire to throw interlopers out with prejudice. “It is the way of respectable people to enter abodes only when invited.”

Violet places the deck on his bed, then proceeds to fiddle with the contents of his desk. “I think you are the only one who sees respectability as more than a threadbare coat to be worn and discarded at will.”

Javert snatches his meager pile of correspondence from her hands, questioning why he ever considered caution at all. “What are you doing here?” he demands, his voice loud enough to be overheard by his neighbors.

“Is a niece not permitted to visit her uncle?” She smiles and steps back to draw the curtains further, letting in more of the spring sunlight.

“I am only half your uncle, and half a mind to toss you out on the street if you continue being obtuse.”

“You have not replied to Monsieur Thierry’s letter for months, and I am beginning to see the wisdom of his sending me to confirm if you still live.” Her questing fingers holds up her prize of dirty bandages spotted with dried blood.

He steps forward and retrieves his trash. “I burned my arm from a blaze a week ago.”

“What happened?” she asks, taking a seat on his bed without so much as a by-your-leave.

Javert thinks that the sooner she satisfies her curiosity and exact promises from him to write a reply to Monsieur Thierry, the sooner she can stop acting like a child underfoot and leave after having accomplished her mission.

He sits down on the single chair in his lodging and recounts the exact order of events from the theft at Monsieur Larivière’s mansion, and the investigation that led to the arrest of the cotton trader from Lille. It was not a secret love affair after all. Bloy was crestfallen when he learned that the cotton trader led Mademoiselle Brunet to look through her now-former fiancé’s documents to find evidence on Monsieur Larivière’s shared interest with his English trader friends. Upon finding out that she was about to marry someone who was involved in the slave labor system for mass cotton farming, she secretly allowed the cotton trader entry into the mansion, who made it look like the theft was about banknotes and other valuables.

The cotton trader then hired the dockyard worker of his acquaintance and similar ideological leanings to get drunk and assault Monsieur Larivière, keeping him out of the way long enough for Mademoiselle Brunet to search through Monsieur Larivière’s other properties and locate where he kept the “assets” he labeled as “miscellaneous purchases for the factory” of skilled workers from West Africa.

The newspaper writer, Monsieur Cochin, recently learned about the cotton trader’s past political activities and the correspondence between him the now-deceased Monsieur Luchet. It was in the town tailor’s shop where he heard of the relevant transactions between Monsieur Larivière and his friends, which prompted him to send a letter to Lille requesting for assistance.

Upon helping Mademoiselle Brunet give the purchased slaves the care that they needed and extracting a promise from her to send them back to their homes in Africa, the cotton trader cooperated quietly when the police arrived to arrest him. Last he heard from Girard, Monsieur Cochin is to have the local newspaper publish the cotton trader’s public apology this morning.

Javert pauses, then concludes, “As for the event still under investigation, a blaze of indeterminate origin broke out near Monsieur Luchet’s shop while all this was going on, and as I happened to be patrolling the area that evening, it was due to my distraction that my sleeve caught fire.”

“And your distraction was no doubt,” Violet says, holding up a familiar sheet of paper with his handwriting that he missed being swiped from his desk, “due to the mysterious man and woman you encountered that night and disappeared during the blaze?”

“If you have already read that, you know that I attempted to apprehend them for questioning on possible arson.” He pulls the report from her hand and returns it to his desk.

“I was not about to remark on police procedure.” Violet frowns. “The seamstress, did she say anything else after the blaze started?”

Javert’s eyes widen. “That was not in my report.”

Violet glances down, and Javert finds that he is gripping his left forearm.

“May I see your arm?” Violet asks softly, holding out her hand.

He has every right to deny her request, yet it is unclear to him what reason he would give, which is what makes him decide to draw back his uniform sleeve and thrust his arm within her reach.

“It was as if she pressed the fire on my coat sleeve to make it sear through my uniform and to my skin. Then she said, ‘Do you hear the people scream?’ I wrenched free of her, then she laughed as the smoke got to my eyes and I was unable to follow where they went.”

“Have you heard the strange news from Paris these past months?” Javert wonders at the abrupt change in the conversation, but Violet is still intently looking at the harsh red mark circling his wrist. “Frozen corpses of little flower girls were found on the Seine one after the other. Monsieur Vidocq figured out that it occurred like clockwork, because records show that the missing persons reports on some of the girls were dated exactly a day after a full moon. The pattern went on through the cold months until it stopped when spring started.” She closes her eyes. “What Monsieur Gisquet did not want appearing on the papers and cause sheer panic, was that the girls all had their eyes taken out, and large, black buttons were sewn in place with thick, black thread.”

Javert holds his breath, the memory of the dark gaze of the seamstress coming to the forefront of his mind.

“You seem to be healing nicely at any rate.” Violet gently releases his arm, then digs through the numerous pockets underneath the thin cloak she is wearing.

Javert ignores the tinkling sounds her movement is making. “The injury is not as grave as it initially seemed. I have partial use of my arm since yesterday.”

“Still, have a get-well present.” She hands him a bag of candied violets. Javert gives it a dubious glance, so she makes an impatient sound and starts speaking rapidly. “Don’t be ridiculous, I know you don’t like sweet things, but I found work apprenticing in fabricant de douceurs and I’m enjoying it for the moment. You can use it to sweeten your tea, or give it to your landlady, I don’t care.”

“I will give this to Girard at the station later.” She raises an eyebrow at him, so he explains. “He makes good tea. It is always hot when I drink it.”

“Well.” She smooths down her cloak, an affectation reminding him of Monsieur Thierry when he is about to see people off with a certain reluctance. “I hope I have impressed how important it is that you write to Paris monthly, so I will not have to wonder if you had died, then travel all the way up here where it is far too cold that I start missing the smells of Paris.”

Javert fetches the deck on his bed and holds it out to her. Violet does not move to take it. “You know that those cards are really yours.”

“This has more value to you.”

“Thank you,” she says hesitantly, claiming the deck, then shuffles it adroitly. “Would you indulge your half niece by picking a card?”

Eager to have this over with, Javert picks the top card from the deck and flips it facing upward.

“The Wheel of Fortune, always the same card with you.” Violet smiles and waves the card almost to his face. “Does this remind you of the rose window in Sainte-Chapelle?”

“The miserable condition it is in right now, or the way it was originally said to look like?”

“Does its ragged edges matter, as long as the center still holds?” She returns the deck to one of her pockets, then bounds towards the exit with enviable energy. Before she could open the door, she looks back at him solemnly. “That woman, could she have also been responsible for the murders of those little flower girls?”

“I will look into it.”

Violet turns her gaze to the side. “I hate her for hurting you. If I ever see her, I would make her pay for what she did.”

Javert does not know what to make of that grave pronouncement. “Violet--”

“I will tell Monsieur Thierry that you have a rosary made in the black jet factory here. Perhaps he will have you send one to him for making him worry.” With that, she slips out. Javert watches her small figure from his window as she wades into the early traffic of people on the street leaving their abodes for work.

When she has gone from his sight, Javert gathers his reports, coat and hat, and after securing his rapier to his side and the bag of sweets in his pocket, he locks his door behind him and goes out into the morning sun.

 

* * *

 

“It is good that you heal so well, sir! The last time I had a burn, I was but a boy and having to apply aloe vera on it twice daily was not a very pleasant--”

“Here,” Javert says as he hands the bag of candied violets to interrupt the stream of words overflowing from Girard. “You can use this to sweeten tea, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir!” Girard peers into the bag with excitement. “You must have friends from Paris who are gourmets, these seem to be made with an artisan's touch--”

“Yes, quite. Are there any incidents that arose since your report yesterday?" He tries to direct his restless energy into making his steps into the station longer.

“All is quiet, and a notice came in from the gendarmes about their change in patrol rotations on the garrison walls.” Girard's expression darkens. “Which is about time they took those two arson suspects at large seriously.”

Javert nods for him to continue, keeping himself standing as he sorts through the piles of paper on his desk.

“The only news of note is of Monsieur Maritain and Monsieur Madeleine found sitting before the Church doors, passed out after a night of too much wine.”

Javert almost hits Girard with the end of his scabbard, so fast does he turn to face the officer. “What happened after they were found?”

“The sous-diacre woke them up, plied them with plenty of coffee, and sent them home. He said Monsieur le Curé apologized profusely and Monsieur le Maire wanted to pay for all the coffee.”

“That was all?”

“I think they also mentioned going to their respective confessions.” Girard's offhand tone makes Javert suspect that the officer has no idea how absurd he is being. “Sounded really penitent, like.”

Javert is beginning to regret returning to work. “And you find nothing bizarre about all this?”

“Perhaps he is bored.”

“Explain.”

“What does Monsieur le Maire do in his leisure time? He works, eats alone, and regularly attends Mass. He goes on walks in the woods and fields, has books on the law in his office and barely anything else despite being an intelligent man, does not idle and yet does little else.” Javert irrationally feels judged, for has he not the same habits, only replace walks with patrols? “The sole person he is seen to be social with is Monsieur le Curé, whom he has been arguing with most of the time since he was elected mayor. It is probably why they ended up intoxicated, debating about philosophy all night can have that effect on anyone.”

“How does boredom relate with his recent irresponsible behavior?”

“Got nothing else to do, does he? At least it is not anything too dangerous, immoral or illegal. Overindulging on wine with a priest is not even that adventurous, and only mildly amusing. I almost forgot!” Girard's eyes widen as he pats through his uniform and pulls out a folded note. “Monsieur le Maire has instructed me to tell you that he does not expect you to report to him in person until you have regained full use of your arm. And that he has written there his personal assurances that the public display of drunkenness will not be repeated.”

Javert does not read the note as soon as he receives it. Instead, he sits behind his desk with his coat, rapier and hat still on. "Have Bloy report to me when he returns from patrol," he says finally, having decided that this day is just one oddity after another.

"Yes, sir. And I think a cup of tea in short order. Glad to have you back!"

 

* * *

 

Javert is about to lean on the nearest wall without soot stains when he heard Madeleine’s approaching footsteps making arrhythmic sounds on the gravel.

Madeleine nods at him tiredly with furrowed brows, his expression similar to what he had worn when they first met. “Should you be going on patrols so soon, Inspector?”

“Monsieur le Maire,” he greets, bowing. “I have yet to formally report that I am doing day shift in patrol for the duration of the recovery of my injury.”

“Burns are nothing to scoff at, surely you can have someone else do so in the meantime, given that you almost became a victim on this route.” With a hand not laden with a basket, he gestures at the alley that they were in.

“The doctor has advised rest. As you can see, sir, I carry nothing so as to prevent moving my injury, and I am well enough to resume work.”

“Still, I would prefer that you were well enough to resume being inspirational.”

Javert is reaching his limit on peculiarities, so he chooses to ignore that as well. He gestures at the basket Madeleine is holding. “Will you be leaving those flowers for Monsieur Luchet?”

“I have just returned from visiting to his grave, where I had also met with his family. It is fortunate that they were away at Roubaix on a trip to purchase cloths during the night of the fire. His two young sons are still inconsolable.”

Both of them take a moment of silence over the late tailor’s memory as they gaze on the burnt remains of the shop.

“Léon told me one of the women that Mademoiselle Brunet rescued has taken ill and is in the hospital. I am about to bring these flowers there.”

Javert throws a mild look of consternation both at his other officer also being referred with his Christian name, as well as at the content of Madeleine’s words. “Is the woman’s condition contagious?”

Madeleine returns the look with a small smile. “It is merely malnutrition and dehydration, but thank you for your concern.”

This trend of unnecessary gratitude, the third of the day, is more cause for Javert’s concern, but he refrains from making that remark aloud. “Are there other pressing matters that require my assistance, sir?”

“Have you received a reply from the police in Montfermeil on the matter of the man and woman from the night of the fire?”

“Not yet, sir. I expect it to arrive sometime this week. Why do you ask?”

“When I received your report, I have to admit some puzzlement over certain details.” Madeleine pauses and puts his free hand on the back of his neck. “It said that the conversation between the man and woman and the blood on their hands implied that they possibly could have killed Monsieur Luchet before the fire started, though at the moment we have no way of knowing without questioning them.”

Javert feels his heart unwillingly start beating harder in trepidation of where this leading.

“I had some clothes made by Monsieur Luchet these past years, and had been visiting him more frequently since the beginning of the year due to my appointment as mayor. In all my visits including the one I made days before the fire, I do not recall seeing a woman working in the shop with the description you have given. I asked his wife about it, and to her knowledge, she and their older daughters have been sufficient helping the tailor for their workload and there had been no mention of them requiring additional services from outside the family. They assured me of their certainty, though you may wish to inquire around town for more information.” He removes his hand from the back of his neck and gestures hesitantly. “I do not know how else to say this.”

Javert forces himself to speak. “What are you saying, sir?”

Madeleine’s voice is firm, despite the apology one can glimpse through his eyes. “There was no seamstress working for Monsieur Luchet.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for all historical inaccuracies! I realize I will probably be trampling on a lot of sad details to keep this angst-free. Re: that atrocious line, I asked the character, “Really?” But I couldn't refuse such a confident request. You can have one guess on the creepy book/movie/musical reference I made, and you are probably right. There will be actual fight in a later when we get to Montfermeil. And in case you haven’t noticed our currently unreliable narrator (“Weirdness gauge level high? Being faced with evil threats? Right, nothing to write about in official paperwork, then.”), let me assure you that it’s just a consequence of something pre-plot and totally Javert’s fault, not because Javert is an Idiot Hero. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Have a [little sketch of the cast thus far](http://attaccabottoni.tumblr.com/post/138484396707/just-finished-writing-the-second-chapter-of-the).
> 
>  
> 
> **Preview of the next chapter:**
> 
>  
> 
> “Oh my jacinthes de bois!” cries Bloy, clutching at his chest and bending backwards as if struck.  
> “If you would please stop talking,” Javert wearily begins to say.  
> “You have jam on your face,” Girard exclaims.


	3. Blessed Are The Merciful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when good and evil live too close to be distinguished. To see the proverbial forest for the trees, Javert needs to start doing things he has never done before. One of them, in this chapter, is to have flashbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was stalled in writing this because I unintentionally caused myself to be triggered in between the fun parts. (*insert self-deprecating laugh here*) Canon-typical issues, because I have no idea how to warn for triggering content when I’m still fuzzy from my own lingering anxiety.

 

The summer days seem to stretch with the bouts of overwhelming humidity. Whenever Javert ventures from the cool indoors, his long legs would inevitably trip over scampering children not knowing any better to properly keep their distance, and whose boundless energy never seem to be beaten down by the heat.

The people have started getting rambunctious with the weather, if the rabble at the market is of any indication. Having to physically resolve arguments more frequently, Javert finds himself feeling more rested after such an altercation. He has also started sparring three times a week in the station courtyard with Cornay after the latter’s night shift, which is just before the start of Javert’s shift. While both of them grapple with whatever weapon of choice of the day or with their fists, Cornay’s wife would sit nearby either in contented observation, or regale them with her commentary on the stories currently running around Montreuil-sur-Mer.

As manager of a group of laundresses and daughter of the town cobbler, Madame Cornay is a veritable font of reliable gossip. While Javert would learn the best way to fight a bigger built man who also happens to be a veteran of some wars, he would also be able to gauge the possible moods of the town better with awareness of people’s chatter. Being able to anticipate insignificant issues like the one between the butcher’s wife and the fishmonger might help deal with the underlying one like the drain for waste water between shops and the market.

Making steps towards a well-ordered town is also a relief from his own troubled thoughts on the previous events towards the end of spring.

Whatever his political leanings, Monsieur Luchet was an honest man, and the mystery surrounding his death needs to be cleared to bring proper justice to it. Presently, Javert is all too keenly aware how he is failing to do so. He cannot even be certain that a murder occurred, only that the cause of death was obscured by the fire. The negative reply from the Montfermeil Chief of Police on finding anyone fitting the descriptions Javert has given increased his sense of failure. He takes up the habit of revisiting what little facts there are in the light of day, and reluctantly mulling over what is not there before he turns in for the night. It is not in his control that Madeleine refuses to denounce his apparent failing in this case due to the same insufficiency of evidence to either accuse or exonerate Javert based on his testimony, saying that it is only just when Madeleine himself was witness that Javert honestly did not know that what he had said was a lie before he knew it. He can only control his focus on getting more work done, and thus cannot idle with his uncertainty or let it interrupt the constant stream of duty.

Madeleine, instead of taking the pains to avoid Javert's notice, now habitually makes the point of meeting his gaze on the street, even when crowded around by citizens or children clamoring for his attention. That itself is not a problem, because it is a mayor's prerogative to check if his Chief of Police is turning inefficient physically and mentally. But that the sharp-eyed newspaper writer, Monsieur Cochin, has noticed enough to approach Javert and remark to him about it is causing it to become an increasing source of annoyance. If pressed to give an answer, Javert is currently unable to explain why he alone has seen the unnamed pair from the fire, and that lack  of conviction could detract from the authority he holds. However willing Javert is to admit in public that he may have made a mistake with the identity of the supposedly not-seamstress, he could not properly be definitive as to who it was he truly saw.

Steadily losing sleep in the past month since the matter began is also just, but Javert is internally protesting that it means having to deal with Bloy more than usual.

Since he could not establish the how of Monsieur Luchet's death, he has been looking into why anybody would have cause to end his life. When Javert sent Bloy a week ago to Mademoiselle Brunet for information, he came back with a moony look on his face that had Javert sternly question his officer on the details of the interview to bring back Bloy’s focus on the case.

“Mademoiselle Brunet said none of the slaves had seen anyone with any regularity except for Monsieur  Larivière and his men.  They find the descriptions of either the man and the woman from the fire unfamiliar, but they do recall a tall blonde haired gentleman giving orders to the men who were unlawfully detaining them. This gentleman was also seen speaking with Monsieur  Larivière while he and  Mademoiselle Brunet were attending that spring ball of Madame Mabillon a month ago, but all Mademoiselle Brunet has heard from their conversation was that it was about rifle models and their prices.” Bloy makes a complicated motion with his eyebrows, like he could not decide what expression to make. “I do not think it was about hunting weapons, given Monsieur  Larivière’s sedentary habits.”

None of Monsieur  Larivière’s known associates fit that description, so Javert has to put that unfamiliar player on the scene aside, though not ruling out his possible role in  Monsieur Luchet’s death until further details come about.

Explaining his reasoning to Bloy, he said, “There have been rumors about guns being smuggled through port cities and the surrounding area, which could mean that war is brewing yet again, or there is something else going on that causes the need for the movement of arms. Whether that tall blonde gentleman is involved in those kinds of shipments that Monsieur  Larivière dealt in or not, he is not yet relevant to our current inquiry.”

He then had Bloy examine the possible connections of  Mademoiselle Brunet aloud.

“The Brunet family business supplies materials to pharmacies all over France. Mademoiselle Brunet also works there, so she hears news on shipments from her father's merchant associates.” Bloy idly scratched his cheek with a finger. “Perhaps I can ask her to recall if something she might have heard could point to some ill feeling against Monsieur Luchet?”

Javert gave Bloy a flat look, and instructed him to keep his questions direct to the point. Bloy seemed happy to take on the extra assignment for the week, as he would any excuse to gaze upon a lady.

Turning his attention back to the present, Javert reluctantly looks up at Bloy standing before his desk, whose hands behind his back cannot conceal that his whole expression is brimming with cheer. Javert easily predicts the first three words coming out of his mouth.

“Mademoiselle Brunet said that all she has heard about Monsieur Luchet, besides his reputable tailoring and warm relations with his family, is his vocal opposition to slavery.”

Three things occur to Javert at that moment. One, the answer to the motive behind Monsieur Luchet’s death was right in front of him all along. It cannot be a coincidence that the voluntary involvement of Monsieur Luchet in the plight of the slaves signaled the beginning of the series of events leading to his end. Since he prompted the initiative of the cotton trader, followed by Mademoiselle Brunet’s decisive action that saved the slaves, it may directly point to why the culprit would be angry enough to kill Monsieur Luchet in retaliation. Two, the night of the fire was the same night the slaves were rescued, which Javert only learned after the fact as he was preoccupied with the aftermath of the fire. Three, he recalled Violet’s words about the possible connection of the supposed seamstress to the abductions of the flower girls in Paris, as well as the timing of their disappearances. If the strange deaths in Paris stopped as soon as spring started, the unconfirmed presence of the seamstress in Montreuil-sur-Mer may explain it. Javert needs the last pieces of information that draws a bridge between these incidents, then he can make a trip with all haste to Montfermeil and hunt down these suspects of multiple crimes.

With these churning in his thoughts, he does not expect Bloy lapsing into longingly remarking, “She is a truly lovely person within and without.”

Dealing with Bloy while it was nearing ten hours after his last meal causes his placidity to evaporate. “You do realize Mademoiselle Brunet has previously aided and abetted a criminal, no matter their intentions?”

“She is like the bluebells in the woods. In order to appreciate her, you have to walk unfamiliar paths, look deeper into the forest and find that things that are not as they first seem.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“It would not seem ridiculous to a woman,” Bloy declares with confidence.

“If my mother were to hear such fanciful notions, it would earn you a cuff on the ear.”

A shocked silence descends between them. Bloy stares at Javert, who is startled by what came out of his mouth because of three facts of increasing importance. The first is that his mother had died when he was young. The second is that he has no memory of her, except what he was told about her. And the third is that he has no intention of ever saying anything about his personal details if it is not relevant, and thus he blames the heat and his hunger for the equally fanciful thing he was making an association of in his mind.

As the area between his brows begins to throb, he pushes at the pain with the heel of one hand as he waves off Bloy with a list of specific questions for Mademoiselle Brunet at the earliest opportunity of his shift tomorrow, with a reminder to report to Javert directly after the interview.

It is hours after sunset when Javert notices a single peach sitting on the edge of his desk. As no one else has entered his office that afternoon, he surmises that Bloy left it there earlier. Having gone through the first half of the first quarter financial reports he is expected to summarize, he gives in to the demands of his empty stomach and eats the fruit, wondering about the harvest of peaches in France this early for the season.

He nods at Cornay and the other night shift officers passing by his office, then attends to the last half of the reports he is studying with minimal disturbance.

Upon finishing his summary, Javert finds himself composing the reply to Monsieur Thierry's latest letter by the light of sunrise.

“Sir! Have you had your breakfast?”

Javert looks up blearily at Bloy, who regards him with dismay in return. To Javert’s consternation, Bloy disappears from the doorway without another word, then returns after a certain interval with a plate of bread with jam and a cup of tea, claiming that Girard sent them. Bloy then gives notice that he is to head off to patrol and then go straight to interview Mademoiselle Brunet afterward.

Not realizing that he has drifted off some time after that, he wakes to Bloy standing beside his chair, shaking his shoulder.

“It was like you said, sir!” Bloy says, almost vibrating with excitement. “The slaves all confirmed that some of the men were abruptly taken one by one, with a period of some weeks in between, and were never seen again. The first one, they recalled was around the time the snow was thawing, and they could not give the reason why they were picked, because they had not much in common.” He paused to take a breath from his recitation. “Only that they seem to have been recalled speaking of family back home.”

“Like clockwork,” Javert mutters to himself. He moves to the side the barely legible letter he started, then commences drafting one addressed to the Montfermeil police station on possible disappearances occurring around the recent full moon.

“Mademoiselle Brunet wishes to express her regret for not being able to be of further help, as she is sailing away to Africa tomorrow and fulfilling her promise to send the people she rescued back to their homes.” At this, Bloy lets out a lovelorn sigh, distrait in his gaze outside the window like he is envisioning the ship he wants to see off.

With a decided lack of enthusiasm, Javert notes, “Her assistance in this case will prove to be invaluable.”

“Oh my jacinthes de bois!” cries Bloy, clutching at his chest and bending backwards as if struck.

“If you would please stop talking,” Javert wearily begins to say.

“You have jam on your face,” Girard exclaims, his presence on the threshold of the office having gone unnoticed until his announcement.

Javert pulls out his handkerchief and wipes around his face without saying anything.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The path of his shift-end patrol passes by the post office. Half of Javert’s march is fueled by dedication while half is from looking forward to impending sleep, when he comes upon a situation at some distance before the side entrance used by the workers of Madeleine’s factory.

It is only due to Madame Cornay’s vocal distaste for, besides the owner of the furniture shop notorious for encouraging the spendthrift to purchase his wares on credit, the vicious Madame Victurnien and her brand of gossip, that Javert knows the identities of the two people on sight. The redhead foreman, whom Javert passes by at times through the men-only workroom on his way to Madeleine's office at the factory, is leaning on the wall with one hand that is almost touching the blonde hair of the woman he is crowding upon. Fantine, whose name would not be supplied by Javert's prodigious memory if not for the hair for which she is subject to getting attention, is looking to the side in obvious discomfort with her hands behind her back.

If Javert’s nerves were not fraying from the lack of rest his severe conscience has been subjecting him, he might have passed by with only narrowed eyes at what he is observing. As it is, the foreman’s amorous attentions to Fantine is spelling imminent trouble to Javert, and in exasperation rather uncommon with him, he allows himself to be moved by his wish for a quicker end to his day.

Experienced in dispersing crowds with a few choice words to preempt any excuses and other defensive objections made, he strides towards them and addresses the foreman with, “What is your business with a workwoman that you cannot ask of her superintendent?”

“Nothing, Monsieur Inspector,” stammers out the foreman as he leaps away from Fantine.

Fantine quickly slides away from the wall and angles herself nearer to Javert. “We are sorry to have troubled you, Monsieur Inspector,” she says.

“Then cease loitering and be on your way.”

The foreman almost topples over at his haste to bow before taking his leave. Fantine begins to move away when Javert picks up an envelope on the ground, and with a brief glimpse at the writing on it, asks her, “Are you about to mail a letter to Montfermeil as well?”

Fantine turns to him in surprise, and her distracted glance focuses on the letter he is holding up. As she takes back the letter, she murmurs her gratitude. “I need to bring this to the post office before it closes. My daughter--” She halts and her face turns white as death.

In pondering this reaction, his memory provides Madame Cornay mentioning Fantine’s unmarried status. Wanting to resume pace, he finds himself in the absurd position of appeasing a worry. “I cannot comment on the policies Monsieur le Maire implements in his private business. Whether you are following the rules for your employment in his factory or not is not in my purview unless a crime has been committed.”

“Monsieur Inspector, you do me a great favor,” Fantine whispers, eyes round as life trickles back in her expression. “Let me not delay us further.”

As they walk the streets leading to the post office, Javert is drawn to meditating on two scenes. One is shortly before he became too old to stay in the orphanage. He was already considered responsible enough to help around with chores as well as shepherd the younger children towards walking in proper lines without jostling one another. Yet when Monsieur Thierry came to visit, he was sporting a shiner from a jealous older boy who chanced him alone earlier that day and sought to push him around.

He remembers Monsieur Thierry taking one look at the bruise on his jaw, then taught him how to play chess.

“Do you know what is more powerful than the king and queen?” Monsieur Thierry asked after beating him three games in a row. Javert toppled his black king and shook his head, still unable to speak out of shame in disappointing his mentor.

Monsieur Thierry started rearranging the board’s pieces again. “It is even more powerful than the players themselves. Children can easily grasp that in every story or fairy tale, even the most frightening creature is bound by something greater than itself.”

Javert's curiosity overcame his shame at that point. “What is it, sir?”

“The rules,” Monsieur Thierry pronounced, pushing his white pawn forward. “Remember this, Javert. Laws are created to level the playing field, no matter your strength, where you come from, position of authority or even the circumstances of birth. This is what makes the world work. If something is not working, then it means either we are not doing our duty to the law, or the law is not serving justice as excellently as it should.”

The other memory is the first time Javert drew the Wheel of Fortune card three years ago. It was the longest time that Violet sat in silence while in his company. When she finally spoke, it was haltingly and made Javert listen with attentiveness.

“Attachment to wealth, pleasure, power or honor will lead you to living in the very edge of the wheel, and when it turns around, you will only end up sinking deeply in the mud. So do not stay too long living in the rim of the wheel.”

He stops walking when the entrance to the post office is within view, and decides to dispense advice.

“If that foreman bothers you again, be more intelligent about it. You are at a disadvantage that can be turned around, if you are resourceful. Even if it means leaving your work, it will be your choice. Surely Monsieur le Maire will give you a good recommendation.”

Fantine’s demure posture immediately turns rigid in indignation. “I earned my place in Monsieur Madeleine’s factory fairly. Why should I have to give way? The foreman is the one who needs to change.”

Javert sees again in his mind’s eye the compassion on Monsieur Thierry’s face, and the disquiet on Violet’s.

“We do not pick the cards we are dealt with, but we can choose which ones to keep.” He looks at Fantine out of the corner of his vision, defiance and resentment written on the lines of her form. “It is better to lose your pride than to continue putting yourself in needless risk. No matter the greater reward, your daughter will not thank you for it.”

“That’s--” Fantine begins to say.

“Unfair?” Javert interrupts, finally turning to face Fantine. “If she were in your place, would you ask your daughter to keep working at a higher paying job when you know the risk she is running?”

“No!”

“Then why do you ask it of yourself when you know you can get a lower paying job but with better security?” Javert looks to the late afternoon sky. “I will notify Monsieur Madeleine that there are complaints from unspecified persons about the foreman’s behavior, but if he requires me to name them, I will have to submit to his authority on the matter.” He then gestures toward the post office. “Now I believe we have letters to send.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Inspector!”

Javert squares his form that he barely noticed is drooping with exhaustion. “Monsieur le Maire,” he greets as Madeleine strides purposefully towards him.

“I heard from the cashier that you had inquired about the price of the rosary from our factory. Were you interested in a purchase?”

When he last saw the mayor, he was preoccupied with matters of sewage and sanitation, that it did not merit Javert’s interruption of discussing his own transaction. There was even no mention of a rosary in any of Monsieur Thierry’s recent letters, and yet Violet’s voice in his mind kept pestering him about it. When he learned how much the rosary costs, he made a decision to be able to have sent one to Paris by the next month.

Javert is about to say as such to Madeleine when the latter thrust a hand into his pocket, then holds out its contents. “Here, take this.”

“Monsieur?”

“The one I gave you before was an initial sample rejected because of a mistake in some of the chain links. This has a better design.”

Javert lowers his eyes and says, “You will receive my payment by the end of the month, Monsieur le Maire.”

“To be clear, I am not going to accept payment for this.” Madeleine’s voice is tinged with humor. “According to English traders, some people carry with them pieces of black jet because of a belief that its properties makes it suitable for protection. Whether or not that holds any truth, you may consider this as making a contribution to arming my Chief of Police.”

“The purchase I wish to make is not for myself--”

“Then you can make a gift of this.” When Javert does not move, Madeleine raises his eyebrows. “Surely this cannot count as a bribe.”

With no energy left to refuse, Javert reaches out and picks up the rosary from Madeleine’s upturned palm. “Thank you, sir.”

Madeleine makes a mollifying gesture and smiles. “You can thank me by being well enough for your duties. Girard mentioned that you require rest and sustenance, so let me not keep you any longer from getting both.”

Groaning internally, Javert changes his decision into subjecting his officers to additional training at the turn of the month. At least it might distract Bloy from his pining for bluebells.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setup is done, so hopefully it will get less procedural with more action. In case you are either angry or wondering about triggering content, let me borrow Girard’s people-pleasing tendencies by explaining [here](http://attaccabottoni.tumblr.com/post/140205071232/let-me-just-quote-robert-barron-to-turn-the).
> 
>  
> 
>  **Preview for the next chapter:**  
>   
>  “I do not approve of this measure.”  
> Madeleine shakes his coat in what he must think is an inviting manner.


End file.
